Switch
by Soulfully Sadistic
Summary: What would you do if you could never think? If your mind sabotaged you every time you attempted to form a coherent train of thought? If you ruined the lives of those closest to you because of it? Boom. (This story has an OC with a mental disorder, however, the major canonical events will greatly overtake their story-meaning they won't always be the main focus.)


"Students…tournaments…feh! Who needs 'em?"

A wispy ring of sweet smoke rose to the bamboo ceiling, yellow from nicotine and worn from neglect (love, some would call it), and dissipated as the Great Ram Master Tensing fumed quietly in his recliner. It was that time of day again—the time where the old Master attempted to look back on his glory days, found none, realized that these were probably going to be the best of times, and proceeded to set the blame on everything else.

The soft symphony of the forest trickled in through his open door (well, it was eternally open, because ever since his last student had destroyed it in a fit of frustrated rage—and left right after, the nerve!—Tensing had had no students stumble along through the dense woods to be his faithful servant and underling, much less actually fix the door. Eventually, the old man convinced himself that the occasional lizard in his soup and the odd thirty mosquito bites meant that he was that much closer to the world around him, with a sense of true understanding that those stuffy city-folk had, and not of the true fact that he was more becoming one with his recliner and his radio than nature.

He scowled, cigar moving with his mouth as the small, old fashioned (but tough) radio sitting on the small table next to him stammered a near inaudible broadcast of the 21th World Martial Arts tournament. This was partially because it was the only thing the poor little machine could play (he remembered spitefully how that damned Roshi had bought it for him with some of his student's prize money—and with that confounded, leering grin too—and how he found out that, to his dismay, somehow a recording the 21st World Tournament was the only thing it could play) and the fact that even if he _did_ throw it away those five years ago, he lacked the motivation (and the money) to get himself something better.

So for nine years this was what he begrudgingly settled for.

However, the radio was an improvement.

For all his time as a master of the Ram style of Martial Arts, Tensing could not for the long life of him understand why the Turtle and Crane styles were so popular. The two greats, always going head to head against each other, all the while with their backs turned right on the Ram Master. Who the hell did they think he was? His style was incredibly difficult to learn, but it was effective, dammit! The foolish children of today, he decided, were simply just eager to learn how to push others down, not to sit and learn the complicated, intricate, yet rewarding—

Before Tensing could go further down his path of self-gratification, a sudden chorus of hoarse, near incoherent screaming nearly knocked the cigar out of his mouth and sent his teeth slamming into his tongue.

Grumbling, a tear in his eye as he nursed a throbbing tongue, Tensing rose.

…

She'd tried everything. This child would hospitalize her—already had a couple of times, due to high blood pressure. She was close to having a heart attack, and only at the tender age of twenty-nine.

She'd lost her willowy figure due to stress; once beautiful and piercing stormy silver eyes were now a mucky, murky gray, and darkness bloomed under her eyes as if an ink pen were left on a paper far too long. Skin that used to look like rich milk chocolate and feel like the most expensive silk was now leathery and papery to the touch

She'd been transformed into a monster, a traumatized monster, and it was all because of the monster she'd decided to pop out of her womb.

She'd tried taking the thing to numerous therapists, neurologists, blown most of her money on some of the greatest neuro-surgeons, suffered through a divorce, she'd tried reasoning with it ("Use your words, dear. Tell Mommy what's wrong.") and what did she get? The fault. However, she was over that. What really mattered now was that her pain and torment was going to come to an end, and the end was very near—in fact it stood right right in front of her, screaming bloody murder.

The thing was tiny—nearly all bones and eyes and dark hair (which was cut choppily short after a school fight—one of many), and harbored the dark brown eyes of a dog (at least, that was how its long suffering mother had put it), which were narrowed and bleary in intense fury as their owner thrashed and wailed.

The mother had come out into the woods in a last-ditch attempt to try and bond with the child (nature was always the best remedy, she'd decided), and for a while (all of twenty seconds), things were quiet. Quiet in the truest sense of the word—if the child was not screaming its lungs out, it was completely and utterly silent.

Then the Tantrum had started.

Without warning, the child began to scream as if someone were hacking at its very limbs. It roared, it kicked, it pushed, and _attacked_ the mother.

The mother was shell-shocked.

Throughout the thing's short existence, even though Tantrums were fast and frequent, and often violent, the child had _never before_ laid a hand upon her. Not once.

Something snapped.

Enraged, the woman grabbed tightly onto the child, wrenching it away from her leg and hurling it onto the ground a little ways from herself, where it continued to wail hideously—it would scream for a bit, then pause, a blank look in its eyes, which would then fill with hot fury and agony once again as it howled once more.

And the mother howled too.

All this time they'd all told her it was _her_ fault, that she'd _spoiled_ the child, that she shouldn't yell at the child ("You're the parent; don't lower yourself to their emotional level."), that she should love the child more.

All this time they'd told her that _she'd_ been the one to transform this child into such an unholy being that it sucked the life out of anyone it encountered.

And she screamed right back. "It's _not_ my fault that my life has been ruined by this thing! It's not my fault nothing works! It's _not my fault I was forced to have this monster_!"

And she crumpled to her knees, weeping uncontrollably. _Have the baby,_ they'd said, _Give it a chance at life_.

Fat _fucking_ lot of good that did for her.

Well, she was done.

This was the end.

She rose, staggering a bit, feeling lightheaded, and, after brushing the dirt off of her flower-print dress, turned, and walked in the opposite direction.

After a while, the screams didn't seem so loud anymore.

…

The screams were getting louder—Tensing knew he was nearing the source. What on earth could possibly make a scream as _agonized-_sounding as that? The old master nearly ha to cover his ears as he got closer to the origin, and stopped dead in his tracks when he finally came across the culprit.

A small, dark-skinned child, possibly no older than the age of five, lay on the ground, back arched, and howled.

The child's features were gaunt (Not enough food, Tensing surmised), and muted gray eyes squinted and eyebrows furrowed from the force of the screams, which were now subsiding as the child struggled to breathe.

Now the child shook, twitching violently every twenty seconds or so, squinting eyes observing Tensing with no small amount of apprehension.

Tensing stared hard at the bony little thing, dressed only in a shirt many sizes too large stroking his famed long white beard in thought. _This one would be too much work. I'm a teacher, not a parent._ He looked around. _Surely its mother must be close. How irresponsible, leaving a child lying here like this_. He pulled his thin, cracked lips into a straight line. _Oh well. Not my problem_.

He turned to walk away when the child let out a sound—this time not an agonized scream, but a shriek of desperation. It scrambled forward to grab his leg in such a way so that even if the Master could easily move his leg away if he wanted to, the child's intentions were clear. Spasms jerked its arms every so often.

The thing was giving him a choice.

**Okay! Hello you guys! Long time no see. (About my other stories, I SINCERELY apologize from the bottom of my heart for the unreasonable wait times. You'll get your chapters, I promise! i just don't know how soon...)**

**This story is set in Age 765. The child was born Age 761, so it's four years old right now. I've always wanted to do an OC with some kind of mental disorder (it's not insanity, but something that could drive someone real close to it) and this idea has been nagging at me for some time. So, let's see out it goes.**

**Eventually, this story will begin to tie in with the events of the actual show, so don't worry. The OC won't be the completely main focus here.**

**Please tell me what you think so far in the reviews! I know it's quite a bit of logorrhea (word vomit), so please tell me how to improve. Thank you for reading!**


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